


A Gentle Meeting

by IndigoClock



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Master of Death Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:35:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24582421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IndigoClock/pseuds/IndigoClock
Summary: As Master of Death, Harry is drawn to it.
Comments: 9
Kudos: 96





	A Gentle Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first story, or well, the first that isn't just in my head, and I wanted to give back just a bit to the fandom that shaped a part my childhood, even in the form of a rather sloppy short story. I wrote it all in one sitting, so be wary of grammar and mistakes that seem a little...err... but please, enjoy!

Harry, as Master of Death, liked to roam hospitals.

Drawn by their souls, he admired their fragile strength. They clung so tightly to their bodies, a quietly desperate plea to stay, to ward off the inevitable.

He found it admirable.

In his aimless wandering, a certain soul drew him close. It was hanging by a mere thread, but that was enough for the tenacious soul.

He drifted closer, and found a boy.

His skin was pallid, his head was bald, and he was all but a skeleton.

Plastic tubes and gleaming hospital equipment surrounded the dull boy like a macabre painting, not so much violent as it was coldly dreadful.

He reached out a hand to the boys head, as if to praise him for holding out so long, and made to unwind that single thread, when fiery eyes met his own.

He stalled, and met those burning orbs with his own, and obediently backed away. Who was he to deny one of their final moments? Even if it was to futilely cling to life, it was the boy's choice.

And so he stood back and watched.

Watched as that thread seemed to grow taut, as it too began to unravel, and matched that passionate gaze until it grew dim, and the thread snapped.

He collected the soul and gently spoke to it.

"A warrior's heart, fighting until the end. Your next life will be kind."

And sent it on it's way.

He continued to roam and reap, but that soul stayed in his mind. Oh how it clung to life, so eager to stay even as the next journey awaited.

He found more and more souls just like that one in his wandering. It was the children that held the brightly burning souls, that stubbornly refused to leave behind a life so little lived, and he became drawn to them. (And if they reminded him of a starved child in a cupboard beneath the stairs, who would he tell?)

Death was to be feared or rejected with all of one's might, or so most souls thought. Very rarely would a soul welcome his gentle touch, his releasing words that comforted rather than harmed, as most assumed he would.

So imagine his surprise when a little girl, nary the age of four, toddled over to him.

She had seen his robes and thought he was a magician, sent to do simple magic tricks to distract the children. 

Even as Death itself coiled around him, she had been eager to greet him, so he found himself obliging the child's request.

Brilliant sparks, coming together in a beautiful emerald dragon, came from the tip of the Elder Wand. It flew around her shoulders, roaring playfully at the excited child. Her happy squeals and evident excitement drew the other children.

They crowded the girl, excited and envy-filled eyes gazed upon her and the little green dragon that danced with her hair.

Harry smiled softly, and summoned up more magic for the children.

Fireworks, bright plumes of color reminiscent of a peacock, bloomed in the air, silent and oh so beautiful, that their eyes were all drawn to it.

Some noticed his presence, others remained blissfully unaware.

Those that did see him, sensed the Death that clung to his skin, sunk into his bones and coiled around his insides. They were the ones soon to be reaped, and he was their reaper.

He was Death, and they were on their deathbed.

Fearful eyes glanced upon his figure even as they awed at the beautiful art he wove into being.

He went unnoticed by the others, more interested by his magic and too far from Death to sense with as much ease as the others did.

And when the nurses herded the children back to their beds, he too left, wary and unknowing eyes leaving behind him.

Yet he came back. Over and over, time and time again, he came back to awe those little warriors. Magic sparked across their bodies and soothed their dreams.

Even those who watched him oh so carefully, relaxed soon. For while he was Death, he was anything but violent. He was gentle and graceful, calm and created such magnificent artwork for them and them alone.

And when the time came that the chemo stopped working, or their injuries became too much, when their forms resembled that one soul who burned so brightly, he appeared before them.

Weak smiles and sad eyes met him. They, who knew oh so deeply that he was their end, who once gazed upon him with fear and anger, now met him as he once did. They looked like he did when he first met Death, so damn defiant, yet oddly accepting.

And when their hearts slowed, when their own threads finally snapped, he was there, guiding them to peace and rebirth.

Those who lived, whose cancer or injuries faded and healed, he was but a faint dream they couldn't quite grasp. He was found amongst faded memories of colorful castles and magic, of stories with peaceful if sometime sad endings.

When they too lay on their deathbeds, when nature, accident, or human violence took them, they finally remembered that magical figure from their childhood, for he appeared before them in their final moments.

And they greeted him like an old friend.


End file.
